


Healing Hearts

by UnproblematicMe



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Misunderstandings, Post-Scene: Church in London 1941 (Good Omens), Post-Scene: St James's Park 1862 (Good Omens), Scene: Church in London 1941 (Good Omens), Scene: St James's Park 1862 (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:48:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24288415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnproblematicMe/pseuds/UnproblematicMe
Summary: They have been dancing around each other for millennia. But a falling out in a park followed by a re-union in a church decades later might lead to a long overdue decision.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 81
Collections: Good Omens - Hard Times - Sweet & Shaymazing Cut, Top Crowley Library





	Healing Hearts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shay_Moonsilk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shay_Moonsilk/gifts).



“I’m not bringing you a suicide pill, Crowley!” the angel hisses, pushing the note saying _Holy Water_ back into Crowley’s hands.

Crowley blinks. He rarely does, but the strange feeling pooling in his chest is a good reason to. Aziraphale’s sky blue eyes looking at him full of concern, the soft voice so shocked. Does he care as much as Crowley does after all? And does that mean something? A chance? Or just heartbreak? Danger from their respective sides maybe?

“That’s not what I want it for,” he says, his voice harsher than intended because in this very moment his soul lies so bare and his heart feels so raw. He hands the paper back. “Just insurance!”

“I’m not an idiot, Crowley. Do you know what trouble I’d be in if…,” Aziraphale looks skywards pointedly, “ _they_ knew that I’ve been…fraternizing? It’s completely out of the question.”

“Fraternizing?” Crowley repeats angrily. Ah, that is it. Aziraphale does not care about Crowley but about his Divine reputation. It is almost a relief to feel this weird confusing mixture of hope and fear fade to make room for pure and simple disappointment.

“Or whatever you wish to call it.” Aziraphale has the nerve to be annoyed, like he is not usually the one splitting hairs about semantics. “I do not think there is any point in discussing it further.”

“I’ve lots of other people to fraternize with, angel,” Crowley spats, the inner demon lashing out at the one person that makes him vulnerable.

“Of course you do,” Aziraphale scoffs and turns to leave.

“I don’t need you,” is Crowley’s bitter goodbye.

Aziraphale swings around one more time to hiss: “And the feeling is mutual. Obviously.”

Then he throws the paper into the pond and a moment later his back is towards Crowley again. Crowley does not watch him leave.

“Obviously,” he mimics.

He eyes the note swimming at the surface of the water, aims his rage at the paper and watches it burst into flames.

*

  
Aziraphale bites his lips as he rushes out of St. James Park towards the safety of his bookshop. He will not spill a single one of those tears that gather in his eyes because of that stupid selfish demon.

Since Crowley came to his rescue in the Bastille, Aziraphale was convinced that the demon felt about him like the other way around. He should have known better and now he does. He has risked everything just to spend some time with Crowley and Crowley repays it by making him part of his suicide plans. The demon is looking for a way out of his damned existence and Aziraphale is just a means to this end. A deliverer of the ultimate freedom from Hell in the form of Holy Water.

He feels confirmed in this belief when after declining to help, he does not hear from Crowley for the rest of the century and for almost the first half of the next. Crowley has gained his trust and affection because he thought Aziraphale a useful idiot. After learning that at least the _useful_ part is not true, he apparently sees no need to cultivate their friendship anymore.

Aziraphale knows this, of course. And yet he cannot help the hopeful jump of his heart whenever he sees a tall redheaded man in the streets, hears a passerby curse after stepping into a dog’s excrements or just hears the bell above his shop’s door jingle. Or the hollow feeling when the redhead is just some stranger, the passerby just had bad luck and it’s just another annoying customer.

One day, a war is raging in Europe at the time, the bell rings and a redhead does step in. But she is neither Crowley nor a customer. She is a Captain in the British Military Intelligence and asks for Aziraphale’s help to neutralize a group of German spies who are in London to gather books of prophecy. She is sure they will contact Aziraphale due to his reputation as an expert and wants him to take their offer for appearance.

Of course Aziraphale promises to help. He is an angel after all.

*

Cursing Crowley steers his car through the streets of London fast. He barely notices the city around him, the ever present signs of the raging war, the lights, the alarm sounds. His mind is set on finding Aziraphale. Crowley has returned to London today in the late morning. Now, not even 12 hours later, he is already on a mission to save Aziraphale. Aziraphale, angel of the Eastern gate, principality, bookshop-owner and trouble magnet.

He is still mad at his best friend. But not mad enough to forget the promise he made to himself almost 6000 years ago on the walls of Eden. The promise to protect that soft creature who gave away his only weapon to protect Adam and Eve. The kind creature who risked Heaven’s wrath in doing so. The naïve creature that did so even though there was a demon nearby. That soft, kind and naïve creature that over the millennia has turned out to be quite the annoying smart bastard. Smart, but gullible and right now about to walk into a trap set by a bunch of Nazis. Good thing that Crowley has a decent network of informants. So he has a chance to be there on time to save Aziraphale. He arrives at the church – because of course it had to be a church – and nobody is in sight. Apparently all the players are already on the field. He has to hurry.

*

Several things rush through Aziraphale’s head as he stares at the traitor aiming a weapon at him. The paperwork that waits for him in Heaven comes to mind first. That is annoying. But then his thoughts wander to Gabriel’s lecture that sure awaits him. The Archangel never admonishes angels who lose their bodies in a glorious fight against demons. Gabriel is however not known to show much compassion for angels who are discorporated on missions he deems worthless, like protecting helpless vulnerable people, healing the sick or trying to stop evil people from taking over the world with the help of prophecy books. Aziraphale is not stupid. He knows that behind the Archangel’s friendly and supportive façade Gabriel thinks him to be too soft, too lenient, too weak to serve on Earth. Getting tricked and killed on an unauthorized mission will be the perfect excuse for him to pull Aziraphale of Earth for a long time, if not forever. Never again will he walk in the park or on the streets of London. No more friendly restaurants or fancy bars. No more music, no more dancing, no more human food or books. Greta Kleinschmidt pulling the trigger on her weapon will be the last thing Aziraphale sees of the world he loves so much.

His melancholic thoughts are interrupted by the angles of the old church door, squeaking as someone enters. Quick taps of shoes and heavy breathing echo from the entrance and shortly after a lanky figure in dark attire hops, yes, hops down the aisle.

Aziraphale’s eyes widen in shock. The interloper is no other than Crowley.

“Sorry,” the demon presses out. “Consecrated ground. ‘tis like walking on the beach with bare feet.”

“What are you doing here?” Aziraphale asks, forcing irritation into his voice, even though he cannot help feeling grateful to see Crowley one last time.

“Stopping _you_ from getting into trouble!”

It is unfair how good Crowley looks in his dark suit, his hair under the elegant hat so that his handsome features are on full the display: the high cheekbones, the masculine line of his jaw and the seductive lips. But the spark of joy Aziraphale feels soon dies out when he realizes what Crowley’s presence means. Crowley can only know of this meeting when he is part of one partaking faction. And he is not with Aziraphale.

Aziraphale should not be surprised. Crowley is a demon after all. Still he is disappointed that Crowley has allied himself with the most evil people of this era. And obviously was willing to walk on consecrated ground to watch Aziraphale die by their hands.

“Of course,” Aziraphale says. “I should have known. These people are working for you.”

But then a scandalized expression spreads on Crowley’s face. It is similar to the one the demon wore upon being accused of having caused the mass executions in France. But it’s even more hurt. Hurt that is even visible through the grimaces caused by Crowley’s physical pain. Hurt that is so present that even Crowley’s ridiculous little tap dance on the Holy ground cannot distract Aziraphale from it.

“No!” Crowley exclaims. “They’re just a bunch of half-witted Nazi spies, running round London, blackmailing and murdering people. I just didn’t want to see you embarrassed.”

Aziraphale’s face softens and his heart jumps. Crowley is here to help him. He listens carefully as Crowley’s plan unfolds, the Nazis becoming nothing but a background noise as he realizes what his friend is doing and risking for him. Small fractures form in the wall he built in his soul to store his feelings for Crowley behind.

He pushes this aside and focuses on getting Crowley and himself to safety when the bomb falls. After all Crowley counts on him. And it works. When the smoke clears, they are both standing unharmed in the ruins of the church.

Crowley rejects Aziraphale’s gratitude rudely, but with a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Aziraphale does not want to think about how close he came to never seeing Earth and Crowley again. Instead he jokes about paperwork. That however reminds him of the treasures he had handed over to the Nazis.

“Oh! The books!” he exclaims desperately. “I forgot all the books. They’ll all be blown to pieces.”

During his lament he sees Crowley move in the corner of his eye, but pays him no mind. Until the demon is right in front of him, giving him a gift like no other he had ever received.

“Little demonic miracle of my own,” Crowley says as he holds the bag with books out to Aziraphale. “Lift home?”

He turns away and walks over the rubble towards the streets. Aziraphale on the other hand can neither move nor take his eyes of Crowley. The wall in his soul crumbles to dust.

*

The angel insists on taking care of Crowley’s feet. And Crowley – with his history of failing at saying no to Aziraphale – lets himself be lead into the bookshop and inside towards a cozy sofa.

It is the strangest feeling. Crowley has never been to Aziraphale’s bookshop and yet does not want to leave ever again. Besides the countless books, it’s full of clutter, trinkets and little treasures, bathed in soft orange light, filling the rooms with warmth and the feeling of home. There is more love in Aziraphale’s small corner of the world than Heaven could ever hope to hold. A strange feeling indeed.

It gets stranger when Aziraphale is suddenly on his knees in front of Crowley, very carefully removing his elegant dark shoes and the black socks. He feels the prickle of a Divine miracle and soon his left foot stops hurting. As Aziraphale reaches for the right one, it crosses Crowley’s mind that the power of an actual angel should hurt him way more than ground blessed by human priests. But it does not. Because it is Aziraphale. Aziraphale who is so much more and so much less angel than all the others at the same time.

When the other foot is healed as well, Aziraphale’s eyes meet his. The demon swallows hard. He almost forgets how to breathe at the sight of the Heavenly creature kneeling before him of all people and almost reverently looking up to him. Aziraphale’s gaze wanders up and down Crowley’s body and suddenly his hands are on Crowley’s chest like he is checking for injuries. Crowley chuckles, hoping to hide his body’s shameful reaction to the sight and the touch.

“How the Hell could I have hurt my chest, angel? It’s not that I was crawling up to the altar.”

Blushing Aziraphale removes his hand.

“I don’t know,” he confesses, but then his eyes widen. “Oh no! What if you have internal injuries because you breathed church air?”

“I think we can rule that out.” Now Crowley’s laugh is honest. “If my lungs would have burnt like my feet did, I would have noticed.”

“Ah, I guess that makes sense,” Aziraphale answers, returning the smile, a little embarrassed.

He looks away for a second, but suddenly one of his hands is on Crowley again, cupping his cheek.

“It’s just…” His voice breaks. “I could never forgive myself if…”

“Hey, angel, shhh,” Crowley grabs Aziraphale’s chin and leans down. “I’m okay. We are both safe now. Alright?”

“Alright.”

It takes them both a moment to realize how close they are now, touching each other’s faces, Aziraphale lifting his head up towards Crowley, Crowley bending down to Aziraphale. It is the angel who closes the distance, tenderly putting his lips on his friend’s. But it is the demon who grabs the other’s neck and deepens the kiss.

When Aziraphale does not protest, Crowley grows bolder. He stands up, pulling Aziraphale with him. Never breaking their kiss, he turns them around and pushes Aziraphale towards the miraculously spacious sofa. He is on him in the blink of an eye, unbuttoning his friend’s waistcoat. Aziraphale gasps and blushes, but gives him a shy smile. After a while the angel’s fingers hesitantly find their way to Crowley’s clothes as well.

*

Their naked chests against each other, they lie on the sofa, lost to the world in their kiss. Aziraphale does not know how much time passes and he does not care. After a while Crowley’s hands start to wander, stroking tenderly along his sides while his mouth leaves Aziraphale’s lips to caress his neck.

But then Crowley stops and sits up. Immediately Aziraphale feels cold, missing his demon’s hot skin on his own. He is about to beg for Crowley to come back, but the demon speaks first.

“You don’t have to do that, angel,” he says hoarsely.

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t want anything in return for… you know, helping you.”

“What?” Aziraphale heart breaks a little. Not even when he was mad at Crowley, not even as he suspected Crowley to have manipulated him, had he thought of him so lowly. But Crowley thinks he does.

“Just making sure, you want this,” Crowley says, not meeting his friend’s eyes. “In the church… What I did… I did it because I… you know…”

Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand and kisses it.

“Yes, I know,” he smiles. “I feel the same. That’s why I pretty much want you to take me. If you’ll have me.”

“Angel, I…”

“It’s alright, dear. Me too.”

They cannot say it, but they know.

*

Crowley with demonic speed removes Aziraphale’s remaining clothes. At the sight of Aziraphale’s impressive erection, his own member twitches in anticipation. He strokes along the angel’s cock and Aziraphale throws back his head in bliss, offering his throat. Crowley accepts, bends down, applying wet kisses and soft bites to the sensitive skin while his hand keeps working on the angel’s cock. Aziraphale’s moans spur him on, but soon it is no longer enough. Too enticing is the snow white skin, too alluring the soft belly and too inviting are the thick thighs and the luscious butt.

With a quick miracle his fingers are slick and circle around Aziraphale’s puckered entrance. He searches the angel’s gaze and when their eyes meet, Aziraphale nods. Crowley pushes his fingers in, centuries of experience helping him find that sweet spot that makes Aziraphale cry out in pleasure.

A little smug grin spreads across his face, but Aziraphale cannot see it. His eyes are pressed shut while Crowley prepares him. His head thrashes from side to side while his back arches beautifully under Crowley’s touch. The demon loves the sight, loves the sound, loves the fact that he is doing this to his angel. But he is running out of patience, his throbbing erection reminding him of his own desire and longing.

“Angel,” he says quiet but darkly, the urgency ringing in his voice.

“I’m ready,” Aziraphale whispers.

Immediately Crowley scrambles to his knees and opens his own trousers. He has no patience for the damn thing and just wishes it away. Then he spreads Aziraphale’s legs and positions his cock at the slick hole.

“Last chance to back out, angel,” he says, a silent prayer in his head that Aziraphale will not take that chance.

Aziraphale’s sky blue eyes meet his once more and the angel smiles.

“Will you get on with it now?” he says primly and that’s all Crowley needs.

“Little minx,” he says tenderly before pushing in.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaims as his friend enters him and he grabs the other’s shoulders to steady himself.

Crowley is careful but determined. Inch by inch he conquers the tight channel, reveling in the silky feeling of the walls hugging his member. When he is fully sheathed, he waits a moment before starting to thrust slowly.

Beneath him Aziraphale sighs and moans, flushed, breathless and beautiful, encouraging Crowley with his hip’s movements.

Crowley decides then and there that Aziraphale is his. Heaven cannot have him anymore, nobody else can have him anymore. This is not a one-time thing. He wants this again and again, until the end of time. Aziraphale can try to get rid of him, but it will not work. Aziraphale is his now.

Spurred on by this thought, he braces himself on his left arm to grab Aziraphale’s erection with his right hand. He jerks the angel off while he picks up the pace of his thrusts. The combined sensations of Crowley’s hand on his cock and Crowley’s cock hitting his prostate overwhelms the inexperienced angel. Soon he cries out and comes over his lover’s hand and on his own stomach. He tightens around Crowley who all but roars in arousal. The demon drapes himself over the now pliant divine body and drives into him at a punishing pace.

Faintly he can hear Aziraphale’s tender whispers into his ear, full of love and affection, but the rushing of his own blood drowns them out. When he spills his essence into Aziraphale, the angel sighs pleasantly and catches him as he collapses on top of his friend.

After catching his breath, Crowley rolls off him and snaps his fingers. A cozy black blanket appears above them, keeping them warm. Under the covers Crowley grabs Aziraphale’s body and pulls him close.

“Crowley, I…” Aziraphale begins, but the demon interrupts him.

“Yes, angel, I know,” he whispers.

While Aziraphale drifts to sleep, Crowley tightens his grip on him and starts planning to make sure that he never has to let go again.

**Author's Note:**

> Congratulations, Shay! I hope you liked the story. <3


End file.
